Thursday, September 14, 2006 @11:19 PM
Subject: The old telephone - a nice story
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones
in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to
the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too
little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination
when my mother talked to it.
Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived
an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was
nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone's
number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day
while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool
bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain
was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was
no one home to give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally
arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the
footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up,
I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.
"Information, please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my
head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information."
"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came
readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.
I said I could.
"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger,"
said the voice.
">After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked
her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia
was. She helped me with my math.
">She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just
the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called,
"Information Please," and told her the sad story. She listened, and
then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not
consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so
beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap
of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Wayne
always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."
Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please."
"Information," said in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell
fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When
I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I
missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that
old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the
shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into
my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never
really left me.
Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene
sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient,
understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little
boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in
Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15
minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.
Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown
operator and said, "Information Please."
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.
"Information."
I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please
tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess
your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any
idea how much you meant to me during that time?"
I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your call meant to me.I
never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I
asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice
answered, "Information." I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" she said.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been
working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died
five weeks ago." Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute,
did you say your name was Wayne?" "Yes." I answered.
">"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case
you called.
Let me read it to you."
The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He'll
know what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
Whose life have you touched today?
Lifting you on eagle's wings. May you find the joy and peace you
long for.
Life is a journey ... NOT a guided tour. I loved this story and
just had to pass it on. I hope you enjoy it and get a blessing from
it just as I did.